


Dilate

by illwick



Series: Unwind [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (sort of), Anal Fisting, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Double Anal Penetration, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Shower Sex, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 05:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15090041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: A pleasant weekend in leads to some interesting experimentation.





	Dilate

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back, dear readers! Thanks for your patience during my much-needed hiatus. We will now resume our regularly-scheduled programming of unrepentant smut. As promised, I’ll be posting a series of porny one-offs as penance for the Angst-Fest that was “Unwound.” Hope you enjoy!
> 
> First up: A few rather observant readers asked for an expansion on the briefly-mentioned ‘fisting’ incident from “Fantasy” Chapter 4-- so here it is! This work also makes brief reference to the previous time Sherlock and John experimented with double penetration, in Chapter 3 of “Possession.” If you haven’t read that installment, the gist is that John penetrated Sherlock with his cock and a vibrating wand during a power exchange, and afterwards, Sherlock got really overwhelmed. John was ready to write off DP altogether, but Sherlock insisted that he’d like to try it again outside of a D/S encounter.

“Bored.”

The comment catches John so off-guard he visibly startles. His fingers pause mid-sentence to hover over the keyboard of his laptop, and he he can feel his eyebrows rise in incredulity. He hasn’t heard that word grace Sherlock’s lips in months.

And not without good reason; between their workloads and Rosie and the massive reorganisation of the flat necessitated by having a very mobile child tottering around, their daily lives were generally jam-packed with the mundane activities involved in running a household.

Not that _mundane_ was a bad thing. John couldn’t help but note that while Sherlock still very much thrived on the occasional all-encompassing, all-consuming nature of a particularly engrossing case, he rarely complained anymore when cases above a 6 were few and far between. Instead, he’d begun taking on more private consultations and freelance laboratory assignments, which proved both lucrative and time-efficient, allowing him to be present and engaged in Rosie and John’s day-to-day existence. If you’d’ve told John Watson five years ago that Sherlock Holmes would one day settle into domesticity like a proper family man, he’d have laughed you out of the room, and yet...

But here and now, they’re experiencing their first free weekend in the flat in recent memory. Sherlock’s parents had just returned from an extended holiday and insisted on taking Rosie to the country for a long weekend, Mrs. Hudson had left town to visit her sister, John wasn’t on call at the surgery, and Sherlock didn’t have any pressing cases on. They were well and truly free.

They’d made good use of the respite so far: Friday night they’d ordered curry from their favourite place (the delivery always took at least an hour, but hell, for once they actually had the time to spare) and had a proper movie night (it had been Sherlock’s turn to pick, and he’d selected _Call Me By Your Name,_ which John found immensely entertaining as he imagined the boy in the film to be a VERY close representation of what adolescent Sherlock must have been like. Sherlock had been too busy licking his lips absentmindedly every time Armie Hammer was on-screen to notice). Afterwards they’d retired to the bedroom and engaged in some very indulgently vocal sex to celebrate having the place to themselves for once.

Saturday had been more productive. The two of them buckled down and finished re-organising the kitchen (locking all of Sherlock’s laboratory equipment away in a new childproof cabinet they’d procured) before moving on to the sitting room to sort out the texts on the bookshelves (boxing up less-frequented volumes for storage so as to make more room for Rosie’s toys). As Sherlock sat sprawled on the carpet surrounded by stacks of tattered hardbacks after attempting to justify needing _Rare Butterflies of the Amazon_ on-hand, he’d shot John a hesitantly appraising look.

“I’ve been thinking about 221C.”

“Hmm?” John looked up from where he was hunched over a book of street maps from the former USSR.

“221C. No one’s living there.”

John cocked his head. “Well, no. I mean, Mrs. H lets us store the mannequins down there, I suppose maybe she’d let us add on a few boxes of books if you really need them, but honestly, Sherlock, it seems we could just do away with most of these--”

“I mean for me. Or, for us, really… for the business.”

“Oh?”

“I just mean…” Sherlock looked strangely nervous, and John closed the book in his lap to give him his undivided attention. “What if we lent 221C as well? Put in some money, fixed it up? We could move my laboratory down there, get a spare fridge so we don’t have the poisonous stuff in with the food. I’d have space for all my books and artifacts. We could…” He paused to clear his throat, shifting nervously. “We could have a sitting area for clients, so they don’t have to come into our home.”

John licked his lips and cocked his head. “You’d really… want to do that?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to gaze out the window. “I don’t… I mean, I don’t _want_ to, necessarily, but it might be time, isn’t it? Rosie’s getting so much bigger, so much more mobile, even though we’ve moved the dangerous stuff out of her reach for now, that won’t last forever, plus we need more space for her things as-is. And… and lately I’ve been feeling more wary about letting strangers into our home with her around. I know objectively I’m just being paranoid, but it’s--”

“It’s human, is what it is.” John couldn’t help the smile quirking across his face. “Why, Sherlock Holmes, I daresay you’ve become a stereotypical parent.”

Sherlock chewed the inside of his cheek. “I have not. I’m still going to be very irresponsible and let her play with dangerous chemicals and read about cold cases she’s too young for and lecture her on the importance of clearing off one’s hard drive of frivolities--”

“Yes, but you’re also going to worry about her and coddle her and want to give her the moon and the stars, because you’re a bloody good father and I love you to bits. I think it’s an excellent idea, Sherlock. We’ll go over the finances this week, and we can talk to Mrs. H as soon as she gets back.”

Then they’d become rather distracted making love on the sitting room floor for the better part of two hours.

Which brought them here, to Sunday, which they’d been taking a decadently leisurely place. They’d slept in, gone out and gotten dumplings, taken a walk in the park, then returned home, where Sherlock had been playing his violin and John was updating his blog. John had just been about to announce he was going to go have a long, hot bath (his knees were ridiculously achy; he was seriously re-thinking whether the two-hour sex marathon on the sitting room floor had been worth it) when Sherlock unceremoniously announced that he was--

_“Bored.”_

“Yes, Sherlock, I heard you the first time.” John taps out the final sentence of his blog entry and hits _Submit,_ then slaps his laptop shut and glances over at where Sherlock has commenced languishing on the sofa.

“Bored. I need a case.”

John wants to be exasperated, but honestly, something about the nostalgic familiarity of the situation was so endearing, he can’t really bring himself to be annoyed.

“You just had a case last week, Sherlock.”

“Yes, but it was a Two. I need a good one.”

“I’m sure something will come up. In the meantime, why not just enjoy the break and relax?”

_“Relax?”_ Sherlock shoots John a scandalised look. “We’ve done nothing but relax all day, and it’s nearly three o’clock. I’m done relaxing. I’m _bored.”_

“So go start a new experiment! Read a book! Check the paper for nice, grisly murders! Text Lestrade for a cold case! I’m going to go have a bath.” And with that, John rises and strides out of the room, leaving an irritated Sherlock in his wake.

John fills his bath with bubbles and lights some candles. He’s grown to enjoy certain rituals of _self-care_ that his therapist had recommended, and this afternoon feels like the perfect opportunity to indulge.

He’s just lowered himself into the water and closed his eyes when the bathroom door barges open.

“John!”

John doesn’t open is eyes, and he keeps his tone politely cool. “Yes, Sherlock?”

“I’d forgotten! Our experiment!”

“Hmm?” John sinks a bit deeper beneath the bubbles.

“We’d been meaning to experiment with that… with that thing!”

John’s brow creases, despite himself. “‘That thing’? What thing? And honestly, Sherlock, stop shouting, this bathroom is a bloody echo chamber.”

Sherlock lowers his volume, but is tone is still urgent and excited. “That… that vibrating wand thing that you used on me following the Hassan case! Afterwards we decided that it was too intense to use again in a session, but you said we could experiment with it outside of one!”

“I… I did say that, yes.” John’s honestly a bit surprised that Sherlock wants to engage in more anal play considering that they’ve had penetrative intercourse two days in a row, but he knows better than to comment on that front - Sherlock could be sensitive about his sex drive, and John didn’t want to make him feel ashamed.

The next thing John knows, he hears the stopper being pulled from the tub, followed by the unmistakable gurgle of receding water.

He sits bolt upright and opens his eyes, glaring daggers at Sherlock. “Sherlock. Put that back this instant.”

“But John, the experi--”

“The experiment involves playing with a sex toy. I am perfectly willing to indulge you on that front, but in this case, _time is not of the essence._ So put the damn stopper back in the tub and let me finish my bath in peace. I’ll be out to attend to your needs shortly.”

With a _harumph,_ Sherlock stoops to put the stopper back in place, then shakes the excess water off his hand with a glare. “Alright. But it better be worth the wait, Watson. This isn’t going to be a repeat of the fisting incident.”

John can’t help but laugh out loud as he reclines back into the hot water, and Sherlock shoots him a condescending Look as he exits the bathroom with a rather over-dramatic flourish.

A few months back, John and Sherlock had been working a case at the Yard. They’d been pulling late nights with the rest of the crew, and in the wee hours of one particularly long day, one of the officers had made a wildly inappropriate joke involving fisting (John doesn’t remember the exact context), and everyone had had a good laugh and shaken their heads and gotten back to business.

Minutes later, however, Sherlock had elbowed John ferociously in the ribs.

“OW! Jesus, Sherlock, _what?”_

_“Did you know about this?”_ Sherlock’s voice was an urgent whisper.

John had been completely oblivious. “Know about what?”

“About… about _fisting!”_ Sherlock was still whispering, but he turned the monitor of the computer he was working at to reveal his search results to John.

“Christ, Sherlock, stop-- just-- navigate away from that and clear your bloody search history! We’re in a government office!” John hissed back.

“Yes, but John, it’s--”

“Sherlock, I know what fisting is, but it’s not relevant to the case right now! If you’ve got questions, we can talk about it at home.”

So Sherlock had cleared his search results and they’d continued their work on the case and John had rather forgotten about the entire incident.

Until six days later, when Sherlock had walked into the sitting room, plopped down in his chair, and announced, “I have questions about fisting.”

John had nearly spit up his tea. “Um. Okay? I don’t… I’ve never done it before, so I’m not sure how much I can help, but you can ask.”

“So you knew that fisting existed?”

John cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “Um, yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me about it?” Sherlock’s tone was accusatory.

“I… what? I mean, it’s something that comes up in porn, Sherlock, but it’s not really something people casually do in their everyday lives. It’s, like, a fetish thing.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with interest. “But you know I enjoy overstimulation.”

John had pursed his lips. “Yes, and I think I’m pretty indulgent on that front. But Sherlock, from a medical perspective, fisting isn’t safe. To do it properly requires a lot of equipment, gloves and special lube and a ton of prep work, and even then, it’s a really, really risky behaviour. In med school, I actually read some casework on people that had been injured attempting it, as a part of a class on rare A&E cases. It’s… look, it’s not really glamorous, and not something I’ve ever thought about sexually.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat. “Oh. Alright.”

John cleared his throat. “Alright.”

He’d gone back to reading the paper.

Four nights later, they’d gone out to dinner at Angelo’s. There, in their usual booth, over the romantic flame of a single candle, Sherlock had gazed deeply into John’s eyes and said, “I’ve been watching a lot of porn.”

John had raised his eyebrows. “Um, okay? I… more than usual?” John objectively knew that Sherlock watched porn occasionally in his own time (as he did himself), but they’d never had a reason to discuss it with each other, so the fact that he was bringing it up was undeniably odd.

Just then, the waiter approached and leaned over to refill their water glasses.

“Fisting porn, to be exact.” 

John resisted the urge to melt beneath the table in a puddle of embarrassment as the waiter bustled away wordlessly. Once he was able to regain his composure (and take a quick drink of water to cool his overheated face), he was able to formulate a coherent sentence. “Okay, so you’ve… been watching fisting porn. Any particular reason why you’re telling me this?”

“Because I want to try it.”

“Sherlock, no. As I said before, it’s dangerous, and honestly, I’m not sure any of the people doing it in porn actually like it or if they’re just playing for the cameras--”

“Nonsense, John, look here.” Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up a video with disconcerting ease--he must have had the damn thing bookmarked. “Of course, a lot of the people in porn are just doing it for the cameras, but there are some who sincerely enjoy it. You can see with this one, not only is he able to regain his erection following the initial penetration, but he’s actually able to ejaculate _twice!_ Though the second emission seems to be more in line with prostate milking than actual ejaculation, it seems to me--”

John had slammed Sherlock’s phone face-down onto the table with altogether more force than necessary as he caught sight of Angelo approaching the table.

“Sherlock! And Dr. Watson. I’m sending out a special appetizer for you boys tonight; so new it’s not even on the menu yet. Only the best for my guests of honour.”

“Cheers, Angelo.” John raised his water glass and Sherlock gave Angelo an appeasing smile as he sauntered away.

John laughed and shook his head. 

“What?” Sherlock seemed confused.

“Nothing. Just, half a decade ago you were sitting at this very table telling me you were married to your work. Now you’re showing me fisting porn. I’m reveling in the irony.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Times change, John. Do keep up.”

“Fine. But can we table this conversation until after we’re done eating?”

Sherlock shrugged. “If we must.”

That night, secure under the covers after a round of rather mind-blowing sex, John had pressed a light kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head as he held him in the afterglow. “So I’ve decided we can try it, if you want.”

Sherlock didn’t even bother to clarify. “Really?” He sounded so delighted, John couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes. But you have to agree to two conditions.”

“Of course. Anything, John.”

“Condition #1: We try it once, and that’s it. We’re not making a habit of it. You can store the whole experience in your Mind Palace and relive it whenever you want, but that’s all.”

“Fair. And the second condition?”

“We’ll only do it until you come once.”

Sherlock raised his head and shot John a vehement glare, which John could detect despite the dark. “Why only once?”

“Because I know you, and you’re greedy as hell, and I’m not pushing you further than your body can handle. So we’ll try it up until you come, and then we’ll stop. Agreed?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Agreed.”

Five days later, John strode confidently into the sitting room, where Sherlock was reclined on the couch, thinking. Rosie had gone to bed, and Mrs. Hudson was out, and John had just finished making the last of his preparations.

“Sherlock, you busy?”

Sherlock blinked. “Hmm? No.”

“Good. Why don’t you go shower? I have some things set up in the bedroom that I think you’ll enjoy.”

Sherlock’s eyes had grown as round as saucers, and John couldn’t help but be reminded of a child on Christmas morning as Sherlock eagerly scampered down the hall, leaving a trail of clothing in his wake.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. He was completely nude save for John’s dog tags, and his cock was already at half-mast. His eyes widened as he took in the scene before him.

John stood at attention beside the bed, already having removed his own clothes. On the mattress, he’d removed the duvet and replaced it with a towel, upon which he’d perched a single pillow. On the nightstand, he’d set out a pair of elbow-length surgical gloves and a tub of water-based lube. Everything was in order.

_“Oh.”_ Sherlock’s cheeks turned bright red, and he sounded completely breathless.

“You ready to do this, love?”

“God, yes, John.”

“Alright. Come here and lie down, hmm?” Sherlock had scrambled into position, lying down on the bed and parting his legs eagerly. John laughed.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I thought maybe we could have a little foreplay, first?”

“Oh. Um, alright.” Sherlock initially looked perplexed, but John had simply climbed onto the bed and slotted himself between Sherlock’s legs before leaning down and kissing him passionately.

They moved like that for a while, cocks brushing against one another in gentle undulations as John snogged Sherlock senseless. Eventually, Sherlock was all but whimpering, and John had no choice but to pull away.

“Alright. How are you feeling, love?”

“Good, John.” 

John sat back on his heels and glanced down, noting with satisfaction that Sherlock’s member was already rock-hard and leaking precome. _Perfect._

“Let’s get started, then.” John clambered off the bed and made his way to the nightstand, where he pulled on one surgical glove with a theatrical flourish. Sherlock moaned in anticipation, his gaze riveted to John’s hand. John grinned down at him as he unscrewed the top of the tub of lube.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” With feigned nonchalance, John reached down and grabbed Sherlock’s laptop where he’d hidden it beneath the bed, and handed it to him.

Sherlock looked dumbfounded. “What’s… what’s this for?”

“Well, see, like I said, I’ve never done this before. You said you’d watched some videos on it, right?” Sherlock nodded, swallowing hard. “That’s a lucky turn-up for me, I think. Could you pull some of them up and we can watch them together? That way I’ll know if I’m doing it right.”

“Oh! Um, yes, yes, that sounds… good.” With trembling hands, Sherlock pried the laptop open and pulled up a video. “We can… we can start with this one.” He pressed play.

John lowered himself to perch next to Sherlock on the side of the bed. “Hm. What do you like about this one?”

The man in the video was young and muscular, the lines of his body long and lithe. His face was open and expressive, and his eyes rolled back in his head as a disembodied hand sank into his open hole with three fingers.

“Um, I like… I like the way he’s being prepped here. You can see that whoever is doing it has got just the right angle to massage his prostate, without stimulating it too directly-- see how his cock jumps, just like that? You can see how the pleasure is affecting him.”

John stared intently down at the screen. Gay porn didn’t do anything for him, but he nodded thoughtfully as if contemplating it on an academic level. “Yes, yes, I see that. Here, let me…” He scooped a bit of lube onto the fingers of his gloved hand and began to circle Sherlock’s rim, loosening him.

On the screen, the hand pulled away and returned, this time with four fingers. They sank in deeply, and the man tipped his head back and wailed. John noted that Sherlock’s cock twitched in sympathy, and a drop of precome dripped from the tip onto his abdomen.

John pressed inside Sherlock’s hole with two fingers, and Sherlock moaned.

“What else do you like about the video?”

“Nngh. I like… I like the way his body looks, with his… with his hole stretched out like that. See how deeply he’s being penetrated, just from those four fingers? And right-- right _here,_ the way the hand is twisting inside of him, I bet that would feel--” Sherlock’s voice is a bit shaky, and John can see a light sheen of sweat appearing across his abdomen.

“Oh, yes, I bet that would feel good, hmm?” John withdrew his two fingers and slicked up a third, then returned them to Sherlock’s hole and began to thrust them in and out, twisting them slightly with each undulation, just the way he knows Sherlock likes it best.

“Y-yes, I think that would feel… good. And… and this part. This part. Is.” On screen, the disembodied hand withdrew, then returned with five fingers, lube-slick and pinched together, which made their way to the man’s loosened opening.

John hazarded another glance down at Sherlock’s cock. It was throbbing, weeping openly; he looked as if a light breeze might set him off.

“OH!” Sherlock made a startled sound, and John’s eyes flicked to the screen; in the video, the young man had just engulfed the full fist inside of himself and was arching his back, moaning pornographically as sweat dripped down his face.

John looked away. Though he’d never begrudge Sherlock his own personal taste in porn, this was a bit much, even for John (who had, admittedly, looked at some rather filthy things in his day). So he simply focused his attention on what he was doing to Sherlock’s body instead.

“You like how that looks, hmm?” John kept his tone light, conversational.

“Ohhhhh, God yes.” Sherlock sounded completely breathless, and a glance at his face revealed he seemed completely engrossed in the video.

“Mmm, good.” John withdrew his fingers and added lube to four of them. “Alright. I’ll add a fourth finger now, okay? Let me know if it’s too much.”

Sherlock nodded, but he didn’t seem to be able to tear his eyes away from the laptop screen. John pressed into him with four fingers, and Sherlock moaned, spreading his legs wider as John began to work his fingers in and out, lightly brushing against his prostate with each stroke.

“Oh. And then. This. This. Part.” Sherlock’s eyes were glued to the screen, and despite his better judgement, John hazarded a glance over.

The man was being fisted roughly, but he seemed to be _loving_ it; his face was an open book of unmitigated ecstasy. His turgid cock bounced against his stomach with every movement, and he wailed as he suddenly began to ejaculate.

“Nnngh! Nnngh!” Sherlock writhed in sympathetic arousal, wriggling helplessly around John’s fingers.

“Oh, that looks like it feels nice, hmm?”

“Gah! John! Yes! Want… oh, fuck!” Sherlock’s face was flushed and his hairline was growing damp with sweat.

“You want my whole fist, love? You want me to make you come like that?”

“I--oh, God! Yes!”

John withdrew his fingers. “Well, I suppose, if you’re sure.” He scooped an obscene amount of lube onto his hand, making rather a production of spreading it around. 

Sherlock seemed completely disinterested in John’s preparations; his eyes were still locked on the laptop screen, where the man being fisted had somehow not lost his erection in the slightest, and was still being plundered rather vigorously.

“Is he going to come again?” John kept his tone light.

“Y-yes. Yes. He. Oh, he. He.” Sherlock seemed beyond vocalisation, and John smirked as he slowly lowered his fingers to his open hole.

“Oh, yes, look at that. Look how open he his, how full he must feel. You want to feel like that?”

“Gah! Yes!” Sherlock spread his legs impossibly further.

“Alright. Just relax. Just relax. Going to fist you now.” And with that, John pressed the tips of all five fingers into Sherlock’s hole. Then, timing it exactly with the climax of the wails emitting from the computer, he pushed his fingers lightly inside, barely penetrating him a centimetre or two.

Sherlock went off like a porn star. 

He wailed and thrashed and bucked as streaks of come pulsed out of his cock and up his abdomen, some hitting him as far up as his clavicle. Throughout the ordeal, Sherlock seemed torn between squinting his eyes shut, and wrenching them open to take in the wanton display still playing out on the computer screen.

Finally, the pleasure seemed to subside, and Sherlock slumped bonelessly into the mattress. Then he wriggled his hips slightly, his brow furrowing in dawning realisation. Then he turned and glared daggers at John.

“You… you didn’t fist me!”

John withdrew his fingers and snapped off the surgical glove. “Well, in a manner of speaking, I did, though I barely got my fingers inside you before you came.”

Sherlock blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “But… but… you were going to…”

“I said, we’d do it until you came once. You came once. We’re done.”

Sherlock sat bolt upright, eyes blazing. “You tricked me!” He sounded so scandalised, John almost laughed.

Instead, he settled for a cavalier shrug. “I did no such thing. I mean, yes, I may have set the scene a bit too theatrically, or engaged you in a bit too much foreplay, or perhaps provided you with a bit too much stimulation with all the porn-watching, but honestly, Sherlock, it’s no one’s fault but yours that you decided to ejaculate prematurely. We made a deal, and fair is fair.”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking rather like a goldfish out of water.

Finally, he collapsed back into the pillows and threw his arm over his face with a groan. “Well played, Watson. Well played.”

John snaps back into reality, noting that the bathwater has started to go lukewarm. Not only that, but revisiting the memories of Sherlock in such a state seems to have garnered the attention of his cock, which has resolutely risen to half-mast. 

Smiling to himself, John drains the tub, dries off, wraps himself in his dressing gown, and pads down the hallway to the sitting room.

Sherlock is nowhere to be found.

“Sherlock?”

“In here!”

Ah. Bedroom. John should have guessed.

He arrives in the bedroom to a rather shocking display.

Sherlock has stripped the duvet off the bed and covered his side of it with a towel. On the nightstand, he’s set out the lube, his smaller (standard) anal plug, the larger vibrating anal plug, and the long, slim vibrating wand. The man himself is stark naked (save for John’s dog tags), splayed out on the bed, and already two fingers deep in his own arse.

John blinks appraisingly. “Couldn’t wait?”

“Nope.” Sherlock places extra emphasis on the _‘p’_ in that particular way that always makes John smile.

John makes his way to the bedside and gazes down at Sherlock, who increases the speed with which he’s pistoning his fingers into himself as he meets John’s eye and moans. John licks his lips.

“So. Before we start. Well, I guess before _I_ start, since I see you’ve already taken the liberty, we should review our ground rules, okay?”

Sherlock withdraws his fingers from his arse and brings his hand to his lips, seductively wetting his ring finger and then thrusting all three back inside himself and resuming his rhythm, his gaze never wavering. “Uh-huh.”

John resists the urge to roll his eyes at Sherlock’s goading, and instead gives him an indulgently fond smile. “Alright. I’m going to be checking in with you at each stage of the process. I’ll need your verbal consent in return. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“If at any point you feel overwhelmed, I need you to vocalise that to me. It won’t mean we’re going to stop entirely unless you want us to; it’ll just mean we need to reevaluate our approach and try something different. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“When we’re finished, I’m going to need to examine you for tearing. That means inside and out, no exceptions. I’ll be as gentle as I can be, and I know you said it was unpleasant last time we tried this, but it’s non-negotiable. Will you let me do that?”

“Yes.”

“Last, and most importantly: We’re not having a power exchange right now. I’ll take the lead on trying stuff out, but I want you to actively participate and vocalise what you want, what feels good, what you’d like to try. This is about your pleasure today. In all honesty, I’m probably going to get off either way, so this is really about finding a way to make this work for you. Okay?”

“Alright.” Sherlock sounds a bit breathless, and John notes he’s twisting his wrist as he fingers himself, furthering the stretch.

“Good. Then let’s begin, shall we? Flip over, you, hands and knees.” Sherlock grins up at him as withdraws his fingers and scrambles into position, and John feels his heart rate increase as he stares down at the two round, perfect globes of Sherlock’s glorious arse. He places his hands firmly onto them and kneads them, giving himself a moment to appreciate the beauty of those distractingly fleshy mounds and the way they feel, muscular yet somehow still soft, beneath his commanding hands. 

“Fuck, gorgeous. You’re absolutely perfect, you know?” He rakes his eyes over Sherlock’s lithe form, admiring it in its entirety. Despite the horrific scarring that mars his back, John is still fairly certain that Sherlock’s body is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen, and his cock wholeheartedly agrees.

Sherlock glances back at John over his shoulder. “Could I get you saying that on the record for the next time I spill acid on the kitchen table?”

John gives his arse a playful swat. “Not a chance, this is strictly off the record. Can’t let you have something so incriminating on file, now, can I?”

Sherlock sighs and reverts his gaze back towards the headboard, dropping down onto his forearms. “No, I suppose despite your recklessly trusting nature, you’ve learned enough to-- OH MY GOD.”

John chuckles from where he’s buried his face between Sherlock’s cheeks, wriggling his tongue until he’s fully penetrated Sherlock’s hole.

“Ohhhhhh John, oh God, oh GOD.”

John withdraws his tongue and laps decadently at Sherlock’s rim, delighting in the way he can feel Sherlock’s body beginning to quiver already, before plunging his tongue back inside his channel and flicking it in and out.

For a long time, John had been adamantly opposed to rimming. He’d never tried it on Sherlock before Sherlock Fell, and even once they’d rekindled their relationship, it had taken all his courage before he’d gotten up the nerve to attempt it. He supposes his hesitation had a rather lot to do with his confusion over his own sexuality (as if sticking his cock in Sherlock’s arse was still somehow passably straight, but putting his _tongue_ there would mean he was well and truly gay? He can’t for the life of him recall what his mental justification had been), but in the months since he started seeing his therapist and addressing his trepidation about his orientation, he’d gotten up the nerve to try rimming more regularly, and to his surprise, he rather enjoyed it. Something about having such unfettered access to such an _intimate_ part of Sherlock’s body was overwhelmingly arousing, and the fact that Sherlock basically melted into a puddle under John’s ministrations was a welcome side effect.

John continues to pleasure Sherlock’s hole, alternating between light licks around the circumference of his rim and deep, rhythmic probes into his passage, pulling his cheeks further apart to grant himself more room to work.

He’s distantly aware of Sherlock moaning obscenely and uttering some combination of John’s name along with those of a colourful variety of deities, and he grins in satisfaction at the pleasure he’s imparting on him. He pulls away momentarily (ignoring Sherlock’s indignant whimper) to wet both his thumbs, then slips them inside and pulls them apart, prying Sherlock’s hole open to allow John deeper access. He thrusts his tongue inside and begins to echo Sherlock’s moans.

“Nnngh. John?”

John pulls away reluctantly, a bit dazed; he’d gotten rather lost in it all, and realises with a start that they’d clearly been carrying on for a while. “Yeah?”

“I… you need to stop or I’m going to come. That… Christ, it feels bloody brilliant, but I’m…”

“Oh! Right, sorry, just… really enjoying myself back here.”

Sherlock lets out a rather unmanly giggle. “Glad to hear it. But could we… get on with things before I get too worked up?”

“Of course.” John sits back and wipes his lips, then taps Sherlock’s hip in their unspoken signal for him to flip over, which he does without hesitation.

When John sees the state of his cock, his eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. Sherlock’s member looks achingly hard, leaking precome copiously from the tip as it throbs eagerly in anticipation of release. He looks very, _very_ close.

Normally at this point John would just suggest Sherlock orgasm to take the edge off and then they could carry on; Sherlock’s refractory period was generally short enough that it wouldn’t put much of a damper on things. But in this case, John remembers from their prior conversation about the activity they’re about to attempt that Sherlock had specifically stated overstimulation as the reason he became so overwhelmed, so he’d requested that if they tried it again, he only orgasm once.

“Mmm, you look pretty worked up. You going to be alright?”

Sherlock sits up and bites his lip. “I think I need a break. Can I suck you for a bit?”

“If you must.” John rolls over and flops back into the pillows with a grin, and Sherlock settles between his legs, smirking up at him wickedly before swallowing him down in one slick slide.

John howls and arches, his hands flying to tangle into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock moans deeply and begins to bob, swirling his tongue in that particular way that makes John’s brain go blank.

For the next few minutes, all John can do is gaze glassy-eyed down at the man between his legs, admiring the way his plush lips look as they work over the turgid flesh of John’s cock, reveling in the way that Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter when he deepthroats him, the head of John’s cock prodding the back of his throat as Sherlock swallows desperately around his length, moaning and salivating obscenely.

John’s getting a bit worried that he might have to pump the brakes on the whole situation as well when Sherlock suddenly sits up, lips swollen and moist, hair mussed and cheeks pink, eyes dazed with arousal. “I think I’m ready to keep going now.”

John grins. “Perfect. That was amazing, by the way.” Sherlock blushes but looks rather pleased with himself, and John laughs. “Lie down on your back on the towel, yeah?”

“Alright.” Sherlock clambers into position, and John turns to sort through the loot on the nightstand, picking up the lube and slicking up three fingers.

“Spread your legs for me? Yeah, just like that.” John shuffles until he’s kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, then grabs a spare pillow, which he slides under Sherlock’s hips as Sherlock raises them up in a fluid, practiced motion. “Gorgeous. Let me know if it’s too much at any point, hmm?” Sherlock nods, and John slides three fingers into him.

Sherlock groans, his eyes blinking shut and his hands twisting into the bedsheets. John begins to move his fingers in and out, twisting them slightly before scissoring them to increase the stretch on the outstroke. He diligently avoids Sherlock’s prostate lest he bring him to the edge again too quickly, and Sherlock quickly surrenders to John’s advances.

He’s already fairly loose; between fingering himself and John rimming him, three fingers barely feel like a stretch, and before too long, John adds more lube and slips in a fourth. Sherlock gasps, and his fingers clench against the linen of the sheets.

“Want to touch your nipples?” John asks lightheartedly. He doesn’t want to give Sherlock a command since they’re not engaging in a power exchange, but occasionally Sherlock would get lost in the sensations and forget that he’s capable of increasing his own pleasure if he so desires, so John feels compelled to remind him.

“Oh! Good idea, John, brilliant, really...” Sherlock licks his fingertips gingerly and brings them to his own nipples, which he begins to twist and pluck. “OH! God, John, have I told you… have I told you lately you’re a genius?”

John barks out a laugh. “Is that so? Mind if I get that on the record?”

Sherlock lets out a series of high-pitched gasps before he’s able to muster a response. “I thought… we agreed… this was… off the record…”

They both dissolve into giggles, and it’s a few moments before they’re calm enough to carry on. John continues to finger Sherlock open as Sherlock stimulates his own nipples, sighing and arching as the sensations wash over him, and John just sits back and admires the view.

Eventually, the pulsing sensation between his legs reminds John that he’d best keep things moving along. He leans over and grabs the larger, ribbed plug off the nightstand before withdrawing his fingers from Sherlock’s arse and adding more lube to slick up the toy. Sherlock blinks his eyes open and peers down at John, analysing his intentions.

“You’re… going to use that?”

John looks up at him questioningly. “I… yeah, I was, if that’s okay? It’s just that the circumference is a little bit wider than my cock, so I thought it’d be good to get you stretched out a bit more before we try anything more extreme--”

“Don’t-- I mean, yes, that sounds fine, but don’t… don’t turn it on, okay? I think vibration would be too much right now.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course, fine, it’s all fine…” John takes a mental note about Sherlock’s expressed preference in this situation; no vibrations prior to extreme penetration. Done.

He gently grasps Sherlock’s left leg by the thigh and guides it back towards his chest, opening him further. Then John takes the plug and presses it into him in one steady push.

“GAH! OH! Oh, ahhhh…. Gah, John, OH.” Sherlock arches, his face pulling into a grimace as he adjusts to the intrusion. John can hardly blame him; the plug he’d just inserted was not only textured, but considerably deeper and harder than John’s tongue or fingers had been. Sherlock’s hole looks obscenely stretched around it as John seats it in place.

“You doing alright?”

“Nnnnngh, _yes,_ God, it’s… it’s a lot. It’s… fuck, John.”

John relinquishes his grip on the plug as it settles, then runs his hands reassuringly up and down Sherlock’s thighs as he shudders through the sensation. “I know, shh, it’s alright, you’ve got this. You look incredible, by the way. So open, Christ, it’s amazing.”

Sherlock grins blearily down at him, then shifts and gasps as the plug clearly presses against his prostate. His swollen cock jumps helplessly and slaps against his abdomen. He reaches down and grabs himself behind his knees, spreading his legs wide, attempting to give the plug more room to move.

John swallows, willing himself to keep his head in the game. The sight of Sherlock like this is completely intoxicating, but he can’t let himself get distracted. They still have a long way to go.

He fumbles for the bottle of lube and applies some to his fingers, then reaches down to touch the place where the plug is firmly nestled.

Sherlock gasps and flinches before John’s fingers even touch him, and John withdraws his hand immediately. 

“Sorry, sorry, I--”

“Sorry, I was just--”

They’re both speaking over each other, then their eyes lock, and they burst into giggles once more.

Sherlock regains his composure first. “I was trying to say, I didn’t mean to flinch. It was just a reflex. You can touch me if you want.”

John grins down at him. “No worries. I realise I should have told you what I was about to do. I’m not going to penetrate you any more right now, I’m just going to massage your rim a bit to get everything nice and relaxed. Would that be okay?”

“Oh! Yes! Um, yes, please.” Sherlock nestles back into the pillows and relinquishes the grip on the back of his own thighs, letting his legs splay out beside him. He licks his fingertips again and returns them to his nipples, which he starts to twist before gasping and biting his lip, then he grins coquettishly down at John.

John’s cock throbs painfully in response, but with a heroic effort, he ignores it. Instead, he reaches down and begins to run his fingers along the edges of Sherlock’s rim, right where it’s stretched around the base of the plug.

“OH, fuuuuuck…” Sherlock’s rumbling baritone echoes obscenely in the bedroom, and it feels like it pierces John to his very core. Sherlock tends to be rather creative with his language when they’re in bed, so if he’s been reduced to uttering simple _‘fuck’_ s, he must be enjoying this quite a bit indeed.

John massages the tender tissue with every ounce of diligent patience he possesses. At first, it feels unimaginably taut beneath his fingers, but before too long, it begins to soften and give way, and John feels as if his heart is about to leap out of his chest as he presses down once more, harder this time, adding more lube to the already-slick surface.

“Nnnnnnnnnngh, _Jooooohn…”_ Sherlock’s eyes are clamped shut and he’s pinching the pebbled buds on his chest with unprecedented gusto. His cock is rock hard and dripping precome onto his abdomen, and his toes are curling desperately into the top of the mattress.

“Oh, _fuck…”_ John mutters under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else, and he takes a deep breath before he musters the wherewithal to try to formulate a complete sentence.

“Um, okay, are you… are you feeling good?”

“Mmmmm, yes, John,” Sherlock rumbles.

“Okay, I’m… I’m going to add another finger. It’ll be a lot, but you seem loose enough, I think--”

“Do it.” Sherlock’s tone is so decisive that it doesn’t occur to John to question him. Instead, he simply slicks up his forefinger, and gently guides it inside alongside the vibrator.

And holy hell, it is _tight._ Sherlock feels clamped down like a vice as John presses into him, and he has to pause twice before he’s able to force his entire finger all the way inside.

Sherlock has gone completely silent and is staring up at the ceiling, his eyes wide and unseeing. His fingers have gone still, and his hands lay limply on his chest.

“Sherlock? You with me?” John feels momentarily shaken; he flashes back to when they’d tried this awhile back during a session, and Sherlock had basically gone completely mute in the aftermath he was so overwhelmed.

Sherlock clears his throat unsteadily. “Y-yes. Yes, I’m. I’m okay. I’m alright.”

John swallows. “Does this feel good?” He doesn’t dare move his finger, and he doesn’t look down to where he’s penetrating Sherlock, lest he become overwhelmed himself.

“Yes. Just… hold still for a minute, please.”

“Okay. I won’t move until you tell me to.”

And they stay like that, frozen, for an indefinite amount of time. Sherlock breathes deeply, closing his eyes, and little by little, John can feel his muscles relaxing around his finger. It’s a strange, beautiful sensation, to feel the minutiae of the way Sherlock’s body gives way to allow him inside. It makes him feel a weird type of what he could only describe as _gratitude,_ to be permitted entrance into another person’s body this way. It’s transcendent.

Finally, Sherlock’s eyes blink open, and he looks down to where John is staring raptly back at him. He offers a small smile. “This feels good, John. You can move your finger now.”

John nods slowly, and looks down.

And oh, Christ. Sherlock is stretched so obscenely that John feels rattled in the magnitude of his own arousal; to see Sherlock that open and exposed feels like an unimaginable privilege.

Not only that, but Sherlock seems to be staying aroused himself; though his cock doesn’t look as close to release as it had been before, it’s still fully erect and lying flush against his abdomen, twitching slightly as John peers down at it. John resists the urge to take it into his mouth.

As slowly as he can, John begins to drag his finger out. Sherlock hisses with relief, but just before his digit is about to slip out entirely, John presses it forcefully back in.

“GAH! OH! YES!” Sherlock arches, and his hands fly back to the backs of his knees as he pulls his legs wide open once more. “Again, John, please, again…”

And so John repeats the gesture, over and over again, until he’s pistoning his finger in and out of Sherlock’s hole, rubbing his own skin raw against the relentless hardness of the side of the ribbed plug.

Sherlock has gone entirely to pieces, grunting and muttering and shaking his head side to side, holding his legs as wide as he can as John administers his attentions between them. A light sheen of sweat coats his body, and a rivulet runs from his temple down the side of his face.

John can’t help himself. He leans down, and sucks Sherlock’s cock into his mouth.

Sherlock nearly bows off the bed, but John doesn’t relent. He continues to move his finger as he bobs his head, not so much licking or sucking as simply providing light stimulation to the shaft and head.

“JOHN! JOHN! JOHN!” Sherlock’s voice has gone high and tight, and John knows he’s walking a thin line; he needs to make sure not to let Sherlock go over the edge. Luckily, he’s had enough experience edging him during their sessions that he feels completely confident that he’ll know when to stop.

Sure enough, just as the telltale quiver makes its way up Sherlock’s abdomen, John pulls off with an obscene _pop_ and withdraws his finger entirely.

Sherlock looks _destroyed._ He’s shaking and sweaty, his hair matted and his chest flushed, and he’s breathing as if he’s just run a marathon. 

He’s also glaring up at John mutinously.

“Why did you stop?”

“Because you were about to come. Don’t you want to keep going?”

Sherlock swears under his breath, then nods his head reluctantly.

“Alright, then. So for this last bit, you’ll need to be on your hands and knees; I read online it’s a lot harder to do with you face-up, so it seems best we do it the other way for now. Does that sound okay?”

Sherlock nods reluctantly and sits up with a wince, clearly feeling the invasiveness of the plug with full force.

“Will you face the foot of the bed, towards the mirror? I think being able to see each other will help us communicate more easily.”

Sherlock swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then nods again.

John smiles. A while back, he’d had the rather brilliant idea of moving their full-length mirror to lean against the wall at the foot of the bed during a session of _unwinding._ Though they hadn’t used it for a session since, they’d left the mirror in place, as it turned out they both occasionally enjoyed the view during vanilla sex as well; being able to take Sherlock from behind while he watched the look on his face was a pleasure so divine, John’s almost angry at himself for not thinking of repositioning the mirror sooner, and one morning when Sherlock was riding John facing away from him towards the mirror, he announced the view of John impaling him had been so erotic he’d come completely untouched just looking at the two of them.

So the mirror had proven to be rather handy indeed, and today’s just another circumstance to add to its growing list of virtues. Sherlock maneuvers himself onto his hands and knees facing the mirror, and John takes his spot behind him before lightly tracing the rim of the plug once more. Sherlock moans, his head dropping down heavily against his chest as he arches his back, presenting his arse for John’s use, and John takes a deep, settling breath.

He turns and grabs the slender vibrating wand from the nightstand, then slicks it up. He meets Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror. Sherlock is trembling slightly.

“You still alright, Sherlock? We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I… I want to.” His voice is surprisingly soft, but his tone is assured.

“Okay. We’ll go really slowly. I think for now it’s best I don’t turn on the vibrations, right? Or do you want them?”

“No vibrations for now. Let’s just… get everything in place first.” He drops down onto his forearms and waggles his arse suggestively, and both he and John burst out laughing, the beautiful absurdity of their dynamic washing over them in a wave of fond endorphins.

“Alright then. First, let’s get this thing out of you.” John grabs the base of the ribbed plug. “Deep breath.”

Sherlock inhales, and John unseats the plug and tosses it aside, then focuses his gaze on Sherlock’s hole.

He’s… open.

Very open.

A deep throb of arousal pulses through John’s veins, and he has to take a moment to re-centre himself and remember what it is they’re doing here.

“Fuck, that’s… that’s bloody gorgeous. You look amazing.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John detects a flattered flush that colours his cheekbones. “I’m going to put the wand in first, okay?”

“Mmm hmm.” John meets Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror, and Sherlock gives him a reassuring smile.

John presses the wand deeply inside of him in one slick slide. Sherlock gives a slight twitch and shifts slightly, but makes no other indication of discomfort. John supposes he shouldn’t be surprised; considering that Sherlock had just had a thick plug alongside John’s finger inside of him, the wand must feel like nothing at all.

Delicately, John relinquishes his grip on the end of the wand and picks up the lube, coating his fingers generously. “Okay. Going to add my fingers now, alright? Just two, there won’t be much of a stretch, just need to get you nice and wet, yeah?”

“Yes, please.” Sherlock rolls his neck luxuriously and closes his eyes.

John pushes his fingers inside. There’s slight resistance at first, but then they sink in easily, and he devotes himself to fastidiously coating Sherlock’s passage in lube as thoroughly as he can. He’s already plenty slick with the lube and spit John’s already put inside him, but one could never be too careful…

Sherlock moans as John twists and turns his fingers, massaging every inch of his channel, maneuvering carefully around the wand seated there. Eventually, John withdraws his fingers, and peers down to inspect the wet hole before him.

“Alright. I think you’re ready, love. How are you feeling?” 

Sherlock meets his gaze in the mirror without hesitation. “I feel good. I’m ready, John. I can take you.”

“Okay. Do… do you want me to start the vibrations now, or wait until I’m inside? I started with them on last time, but maybe that was too much?”

Sherlock’s brow furrows as he mulls it over. “Perhaps it’s best if you wait. Let me get adjusted, then start.”

John nods resolutely. “Fair enough. And, um… once we start…” He’s not quite sure how to phrase the next part, but Sherlock’s face is open and eager as he stares at him in the mirror, and the sight of him somehow puts John at ease. “Once we start, do you want me to… hold back, so you can try and come? Do you think you’ll want to try and come from this?”

Sherlock nods. “I’d like to, yes.”

“Okay. So, um, once you come, do you want me to stop? I know last time I carried on after you’d finished, and I’m wondering if the overstimulation led to you feeling overwhelmed.”

Sherlock bites his lip. “I’m not sure, really. Can you… if I manage to come, maybe check in with me then and I’ll let you know if you should keep going?”

“Good plan.”

“Excellent.”

“So, I’ll just.”

“Yes. By all means.”

“Okay. I’m going to, um.”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“John, I think we’ve ticked _’verbal consent’_ off the checklist at this point. Care to follow through?”

John laughs again and gives Sherlock’s arse another playful swat. “Greedy, you.” He reaches down and slicks up his own cock. It feels hot and heavy in his palm, but his arousal is almost secondary to the pleasure he’s attempting to provide for Sherlock.

Gently, he guides the head of his prick until it’s resting against Sherlock’s hole, then he withdraws the wand ever so slightly to give himself room to press in along side it. Keeping one hand on the base of the wand, he puts the other on Sherlock’s hip to hold him in place.

“Okay. Deep breath in.” Sherlock breathes in and closes his eyes. “Good. Now, exhale.” Sherlock does, and as he does so, John forces his cock in alongside the wand.

Sherlock screams. His hands fly to the footboard of the bed and clamp down on it, knuckles white, arms shaking. John continues to drive his hips forward until he’s about halfway in, and then he stops.

“Ah! Gah, ahhhhhh….” Sherlock rolls his hips and pants obscenely, throwing his head back and arching his spine.

John relinquishes his hold on Sherlock’s hip and beings to run his hand up and down his back in an effort to gentle him. “Shhh, it’s alright, it’s alright, just breathe…”

“Ah, fuck, John…” Sherlock blinks his eyes open, and they’re filled with tears. He doesn’t relinquish his grip on the headboard, and his forearms are shaking with the effort.

“Breathe, Sherlock. Need you to relax, now. I’m about halfway in.”

“Gah, _fuck, fuck…”_ Sherlock drops his head towards his chest and undulates his pelvis, seeking to make room inside of himself for the brutal intrusion. John holds perfectly still, allowing Sherlock to explore the stretch.

Eventually, John can feel his channel gradually unclenching. Sherlock’s hands relax, and he seems to be breathing more evenly again. “Feeling alright?”

“Mmm. Yes. It. Hurts.”

John hates hearing that. He knows Sherlock gets off on painful sex and overstimulation, but it’s never gotten easier for John to hear it when Sherlock puts it in such simple terms. 

But he doesn’t panic. “Okay. Good hurt or bad hurt?” He asks diplomatically.

“Good hurt.”

“Okay. Let me know if you want me to keep going.”

“You can. Keep. Going.”

“Okay. I’m going to push all the way in, now. Deep breath?” Sherlock inhales. “Exhale.”

Sherlock does so, and John grips his hips and forces his cock all the way inside.

“NGGGGGAAAAAH! AH! AH! AH!” Sherlock’s shaking the footboard now, the muscles in his arms rippling with the effort, veins bulging, as his face contorts in agony. His channel clenches mercilessly around John’s girth, and John moans helplessly in response.

John loses himself for a moment, focusing on maintaining his own breathing. The sensation of being inside Sherlock alongside the wand means that Sherlock’s passage feels ridiculously small and tight around John’s swollen length, to the point it’s almost uncomfortable for him as well.

When John gets his bearings, Sherlock is still wailing and writhing. He hazards a glance at Sherlock’s face in the mirror; tears are streaming down his face, and he looks like he’s in absolute agony.

“Sherlock, you alright? Should I pull out?”

“NGGGGGGGNGH!!! No. Ahhhhhhhhhh _stay. NGH. NGH. Hold. Still. Auuuuughhh…”_

John forces himself to remain completely frozen as Sherlock flexes and strains, his body desperate to escape the flood of sensations.

“Sher… Sherlock, shhhh.” He runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, soothing the rippling muscles. “Shhh. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’ve got this. Shhhh, shhh…” 

Eventually, Sherlock whimpers and stills. He’s still shaking, but John notes with relief that it seems he’s relaxed considerably around John’s girth and is no longer fighting the intrusion.

As delicately as he can, John leans forward and bends down to pepper Sherlock’s back with a series of light, reverent kisses. Sherlock quivers under his ministrations, the affection seeming to relax him even further, and eventually the rolls of his hips become less desperate and more provocative. John smiles and licks a stripe up Sherlock’s spine before kneeling up behind him.

“Gorgeous. Beautiful. Feeling good, love?”

“Nnngh. Yes. John.” Sherlock meets John’s gaze in the mirror and his eyes, while wet, are filled with lust.

John grins at him. “Good. Now… if you feel ready, I’m going to turn the vibrator on and start fucking you. I know that sensation is probably really intense, and you make a lot of noise when I’m penetrating you like this, and that’s fine. But sometimes it’s hard for me to tell what’s a good noise and what’s a bad noise. If you want me to stop, I need you to clearly say, ‘STOP.’ Can you do that?”

Sherlock nods resolutely. “Yes, John.”

“Okay.” John picks up the tube of lube and attempts to steel himself for the inevitable. Finally, he can’t avoid it any longer; he looks down at where he’s entering Sherlock.

And Christ, the sight of Sherlock’s hole stretched obscenely to swallow both John’s cock and the wand is so completely consuming John almost comes on the spot despite his best efforts. His rim is dripping wet and forced so wide John can’t fathom how it could possibly be a pleasurable sensation, but he knows better than to question it. He simply squeezes some lube onto his fingers, and applies another generous dose to the area.

Beneath him, Sherlock shifts and wriggles around where he’s impaled. He’s starting to oscillate his pelvis, testing the waters a bit, acclimating to the sensation of John’s girth entering and exiting him again. He moans.

“Alright, Sherlock. Hold still, now.” Sherlock settles, and locks his arms against the footboard, preparing for the onslaught.

John reaches down and finds the base of the vibrator. He flicks it on.

Sherlock lets out a wail so loud, John would be concerned about Mrs. Turner calling the cops if he had any presence of mind to do so. Instead, he simply grabs Sherlock firmly by the shoulders, and begins to fuck him.

John wanted to take it slowly this time. The last time they’d tried this had been during a session, with Sherlock tied up and begging while John plundered him violently. He’d envisioned that this time, he’d take it nice and slow, with long, languid thrusts that would warm them both up to the sensations gradually.

But as it turned out, that was, quite simply, impossible. Not only did pulling out further than halfway threaten to unseat the vibrator altogether, but the overwhelming biological imperative to _thrust_ was so consuming that John feels completely enslaved by it. He pummels into Sherlock brutally, his gaze riveted to where Sherlock’s hole is stretched vulgarly around his girth.

He’s aware that Sherlock is screaming. There’s no other way to describe the sound he’s making; it’s the sound of being ravaged so completely it’s beyond articulation. A quick glance into the mirror reveals that Sherlock’s face is soaked with tears, reddened with the effort of taking John’s thrusts, and glistening with the sweat of his own exertion. It’s beauty beyond compare.

“OH, fuck, Sherlock, yes! Yes! Oh, God! Yeah! Yeah! Just-- just like that! OH! Fuck! Oh, take it! Take it!”

Sherlock screams again, but it dissolves into a helpless wail as John pistons into his channel.

“OH! OH! Christ, yeah! Yeah! Take-- take my cock! Take it!”

Sherlock responds with something that may be John’s name, or perhaps simply a series of random syllables strung together; John’s not quite sure which.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s entire body pulls taut, and he goes shockingly silent.

Fuck. He was going to come.

John grips him by the shoulders and begins pulling his willing body back to meet John’s pelvis thrust for thrust. In the mirror, Sherlock’s expression melts into one of uncomprehending awe. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a low, guttural groan.

“That’s it! That’s it! Do it! Do it! Come on, Sherlock! Take my cock! Come on it! Do it! DO IT! You can do it! Come on! Come on my cock! Come on my cock!”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut as his eyes roll back in his head.

Then he opens his mouth, and _howls._

Through the reflection in the mirror, John can see Sherlock’s flushed, heavy cock twitching between his legs. Then it lengthens and pulses twice before expelling an obscene amount of come on to the bed below.

“Oh, fuck! Oh, yeah! Oh! Sherlock, YES! YES!” John fucks Sherlock through his orgasm, stimulating him as thoroughly as possible so as to prolong his pleasure to the fullest extent. Beneath him, Sherlock screams and wails as his cock emits its generous load, spurned from the relentless assault of his prostate within.

It feels like an eternity before Sherlock finally stops coming; the intense stimulation of his prostate had extended his climax considerably, and he’d continued to cry out in the throes of pleasure for nearly half a minute after he’d stopped ejaculating, his prick twitching in dry spasms as John pummeled him relentlessly. But eventually, his muscles go lax, and his face, which had previously been twisted in a combination of agony and ecstasy, goes soft and dazed.

John manages to stop thrusting, but the relentless vibration from the wand seated resolutely beside his cock makes it rather difficult to focus. He takes a deep breath, and manages to speak.

“You alright?”

Sherlock whimpers and lets out a long, low moan. He’s dropped down to bury his head in his arms, and he’s still quivering from head to toe.

“Sherlock? I need an answer. Are you okay?”

“Yes.” The word is muffled and curt, but it’ll have to suffice.

John’s cock twitches eagerly in Sherlock’s abused passage; the ministrations of the vibrator are growing increasingly difficult to ignore, but John does his best to repress the urge to start thrusting again.

“Can I keep going and finish inside you, or do you need me to stop?”

Sherlock manages to raise his head a few inches, and when he speaks, his voice is wet and thick with tears. “You can… you can finish. I can take it.”

John wants to ask him if he’s sure. But he also knows that Sherlock has never verbally consented to more than he could handle, and John needs to trust Sherlock’s judgement, just as much as John expects Sherlock to trust his.

“Nnngh, okay. Alright. Gonna… gonna finish inside you, hold on…” John leans forward to take hold of Sherlock firmly by the shoulders, pinning his body in place. Sherlock extends his arms to brace himself against the footboard before lowering his head once more.

John pulls out as much as he can without threatening to unseat the wand, then he snaps his hips forward forcefully. Sherlock screams into the bedsheets. John repeats the action. Sherlock screams again. A third time, and Sherlock’s voice cracks, going hoarse with the effort. Then Sherlock raises his head and meets John’s eyes in the mirror.

“John. Please.”

That’s all it takes. The next moment, John is ravaging him brutally, fucking into his stretched hole as forcefully as he dares, the sensation of Sherlock’s passage so crowded and full nearly overwhelming in its intensity.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock! FUCK! Oh God, your arse… gonna… gonna claim your arse, come inside you, fill you up until you’re leaking and filthy--”

“God, John, yes…”

“Oh, GOD, your hole… you’re so full, so open, fuck, Sherlock, fuck, gonna wreck you, make a mess of you, gonna make it so you can’t walk right for a week, GOD--”

“Joooohn!”

“OH! FUCK! You like my cock? You like taking my cock?”

“Yes, John! GAH! AH! Give-- give it to me! Make me… make me take it!”

“Yeah? Yeah? You want it? You like it when I fuck you open like this?”

“John, yes! Oh, please! Want your come! Please!”

“Oh, you want me to come in you? You want it?”

“Please! Please! Come in me! Come in me! Please!”

“OH, yeah, gonna fill up your arse, fill you up so good--”

“Well.”

Were John not so turned on he couldn’t see straight, he’s fairly certain he’d have a few choice words about Sherlock correcting his grammar in their current situation, but as it stands…

“OH! OH! Sherlock! Sherlock! FUCK, your arse, your arse, oh God, take it, take it, take my come…”

“Joooooohn!”

And with that, John leans down, wraps his arms around Sherlock’s chest, and heaves him into his lap before pistoning mercilessly up into him. The change in position shifts the depth of penetration, and the next thing John knows, his cock is being ruthlessly squeezed against the vibrator by Sherlock’s constricting passage, somehow even tighter from this angle.

John bites the back of Sherlock’s neck, and comes.

He’s vaguely aware that Sherlock is sobbing and moaning as John fills him, but he can’t make his hips stop jerking up into that perfect, tight heat. The vibrations prolong his orgasm, consuming him in their intensity, and John feels incapable of doing anything except surrendering to his body’s desire to _fill, fill, fill…_

As soon as his climax begins to recede, John’s instantly reminded of the discomfort caused by experiencing vibrations against his cock in the wake of an orgasm. It’s overstimulating and uncomfortable, and he’s overwhelmed with the urge to remove himself from Sherlock’s body _immediately._

His teeth relinquish their grip on the back of Sherlock’s neck (he glances down to confirm he didn’t break the skin; he’s near certain he was careful enough, but _fuck,_ he’d gotten rather lost in the moment, there), then pushes Sherlock forward until he collapses face-first onto the bed with a grunt. John pulls out his softening prick and quickly removes the wand, switching it off and tossing it aside before lowering himself to lie on his side facing Sherlock’s prone form.

For a while, there’s no sound but their breathing, mutual gasps amidst the silence of the bedroom.

Finally, John feels like he’s able to form a coherent thought. He reaches over and gingerly runs his fingers through Sherlock’s unruly mop of curls. Sherlock’s face remains buried in the bedsheets. “Hey. You alright, love?”

Slowly, Sherlock turns his face towards John. It’s still streaked with tears and alarmingly flushed, his hairline damp with sweat. He looks beautiful.

“Yes. I’m okay.” His voice is low and gravelly.

John smiles. “Good.” He pushes a strand of hair back from Sherlock’s glistening forehead, and leans over to plant a soft kiss there. “I need to check you over. Do you want me to do it now, or wait a few minutes?”

Sherlock swallows and closes his eyes. John knows from their past conversations about double penetration that he hates being examined after such rough use, but John had been adamant that it was necessary.

“Can we… wait a bit? I don’t know if that’ll make it any better, but right now, I… I can’t. I can’t.”

“Okay, we can wait. Do you want me to hold you?”

Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes, but he gives a bleary nod. John pulls him into his arms.

They stay there for an undefinable length of time. John runs his fingers gently up and down Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock nuzzles into John’s neck as his breathing softens and deepens. They may have drifted off to sleep for a bit; John’s not entirely sure. He just lets them float in their glorious post-coital bliss.

At long last, the light outside the bedroom is fading, and Sherlock’s stomach gives a traitorous grumble. John bursts into giggles.

“Well, I guess that’s the sign we’d best move on, here.” 

Sherlock giggles too, then snuggles even closer to John. “Mmm. I can wait a bit longer.”

John plants a kiss on the top of his head, then begins the unpleasant process of extricating himself from Sherlock’s sloth-like grip. “Sorry, love, but I think it’s best we get this over with.”

Sherlock groans and buries his face in the sheets.

“Come on. We’ll get it over with, then we’ll get showered up and have Angelo send over some gnocchi and garlic bread, hmm?”

Sherlock huffs indignantly, but he eventually gives a curt nod. “Fine.”

“Alright.” John pulls himself into a kneeling position. “Do you want to do this face down or face up?”

“Face down is fine.” Sherlock’s tone has become undeniably distant and frosty.

John steels himself. In all honesty, he’s completely flummoxed as to why Sherlock becomes so shy about the state of his hole following extreme penetration; John knows Sherlock’s well aware of how arousing John finds it, so he has no clue why Sherlock would be so embarrassed. He knows it must hurt as well, but usually Sherlock didn’t mind a little pain…

“Okay. Spread your legs for me?” Sherlock complies, and John shuffles over until he’s kneeling between them. “Lovely. Going to open you up now, but I’m just going to look. I’ll check in with you before I touch, okay?”

Sherlock gives a tiny nod.

John gently places his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks and pulls them apart.

And oh _God, oh GOD,_ it’s beautiful. The sight of his abused hole, red and wet and raw, with a distinct trickle of John’s come leaking from it, it’s so beautiful, so beautiful…

John decides not to keep it to himself. “Oh my God, Sherlock. You look beautiful. So gorgeous.” Sherlock just sighs impatiently into the mattress. John remains resolute. “Do you know how much it turns me on to see what you’ve let me do to you?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “I believe I have some idea.”

John shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t think you do. Here.” He leans forward to plant one hand on the mattress, right beside Sherlock’s head. “Take my pulse.”

Sherlock turns his head to the side, confusion etched in his brow. “What?”

“I want you to take my pulse while I examine you. I want you to understand what it is you do to me.”

Sherlock looks unconvinced, but he reluctantly raises his hand and wraps his fingers around John’s wrist, until his fingertips are resting against John’s pulse point.

“You feel my pulse?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. I’m going to open you up and look at you again, and I want you to feel how I react.”

“All...Alright.” Sherlock closes his eyes again, but his fingers remain in place.

John climbs from his spot between Sherlock’s legs over to where he can kneel beside him, making it easier to keep his hand still for Sherlock to take his pulse while examining him with the other. With his free hand, he parts Sherlock’s cheeks once more.

“Oh, God, Sherlock. You’re so beautiful. Do you have any idea how lucky it makes me feel that you let me have you like this?”

“Mmm.” It’s not a _yes,_ per se, but Sherlock’s tone is distinctly less grumpy than before.

“When I see you like this, all wet and open, I feel like the luckiest man in the world, knowing you haven’t let anyone else have you this way.”

“Mmm.”

“And when you let me penetrate you like you just did, stretch you out until you can barely stand it, the knowledge that you’ve let me have your body like that makes me want to fucking _prostrate myself at your feet.”_

_“Mmm.”_

“And when I touch your rim--” John gently licks the fingers of his free hand and lowers them to the tender tissue, ignoring the shudder from the man beneath him. “And when I touch your rim, and you look so well-used from taking my cock, it makes me want to _worship_ you, hold you and have you and tell you over and over again how grateful I am that you give yourself to me like this.”

_“Oh, John…”_ Sherlock’s breathing is coming faster now, and his fingers tighten around John’s wrist. And then he _spreads his legs further,_ as if asking John for _more…_

“And when I touch you inside--” Sherlock moans as John dips two fingers into his hot channel. “Oh, God, Sherlock, when I touch you inside and feel you full of my come, I can’t breathe for the awe of it. To know you’ve let me be inside you, to know you’ve let me use your transport to bring me pleasure, and to know I’m the only man you’ve ever let be with you like that, God, Sherlock, there aren’t words. There aren’t words for what it does to me, love, to feel a part of me inside of you. It’s a privilege the likes of which I will never, _ever_ be able to describe. So just feel it, love, feel my pulse, feel what you do to me, God, the things you do to me, I’m mad for you, love, out of my mind, the things you do to me, Sherlock, the things you do…” John is rambling, punch-drunk and dazed with arousal as he work his fingers deeper inside Sherlock’s fluttering hole, his filters completely shattered by what he’s witnessing.

And then Sherlock is _moaning, arching,_ raising his hips to take John’s fingers deeper, and without thinking, John begins to move them in and out, his eyes locked on where his streaks of come are coating them.

_“John. Oh, John, yes…”_

John’s not entirely sure what prompts him to do what he does next. But without thinking, he bends down and begins to lick and suck at Sherlock’s rim as he moves his fingers in and out of him.

It’s… hell, he’s not quite sure what it is. It’s unpleasant, at the surface; not only is he not exactly thrilled about the taste of his own come, but it’s intermingled with an obscene amount of lube, which tastes completely vile, and the combination of the two is bitter on his tongue.

But… it’s also indescribably _erotic_ in a way that completely defies categorisation. He briefly withdraws his fingers to suck a wet, open-mouthed kiss over Sherlock’s opening, before plunging them back inside and licking luxuriously around Sherlock’s inflamed rim.

Beneath him, Sherlock is moaning pornographically. His fingertips are still resolutely pressed against John’s pulse point, but his hips are undulating in time with each thrust of John’s fingers, and John grins to himself as he buries his tongue between the swell of Sherlock’s clenching arsecheeks.

In his ideal world, he’d have carried on like that forever, but eventually the taste is too off-putting to ignore, and he’s forced to sit up and pull away, withdrawing his come-coated fingers and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sherlock’s grip slips away from John’s wrist, and he rolls onto his side to stare up at John, his eyes wide and bewildered. _“John._ John, I didn’t know… I didn’t know… you felt that way.”

John wants to kiss him, but he thinks better of it at the last second (no reason to subject Sherlock to the lube flavour if he didn’t have to), and instead settles for giving him a reassuring smile. “Well, now you do. And if you’d like, I’d love to take you in the shower and clean you up myself. Would you like that?”

“Oh, God, yes.” Sherlock rolls out of bed and gets to his feet so quickly that he sways dangerously as the head rush overtakes him. Luckily, John manages to scramble out of bed just in time to steady him.

“Easy there. You’ll be no use to me passed out on the floor. Come on, let’s get the shower started, hmm?”

He guides a rather over-eager Sherlock into the bathroom, and moments later, they’re reveling under the hot spray.

John discretely rinses out his mouth, then they kiss a bit before John pulls away and smiles coyly up at Sherlock. “Want me to clean you up?”

“Yes.” Sherlock answers so quickly it’s almost comical. John glances down at Sherlock’s cock, and notes that he’s rising to hardness again. He’s honestly a bit surprised considering how rough their previous round had been, but he takes it in stride.

“Okay. Turn and face the wall, yeah, like that, perfect.” Sherlock bends over and braces himself on his forearms against the tile wall, then rests his head against them. “Gorgeous. Amazing. Going to get you nice and clean, now.” 

And with that, John crouches down, spreads Sherlock’s cheeks, and begins to lick and suck tenderly at his hole.

He’s only cleaned Sherlock like this once before, but he’s once again surprised that it’s not actually that unpleasant. The shower water dilutes the come and lube mixture considerably, and it’s easy enough to simply turn his head and swish out his mouth every once in awhile, meaning he has no obligation to swallow.

Sherlock is beautifully open, and John delights in the depth at which he’s able to lick into his hot channel before pressing his lips against his fluttering hole to form a seal and sucking out the evidence of his release. He repeats the gesture over and over again, pausing only briefly to lap gently at Sherlock’s rim, keeping him loose and relaxed.

“Ngh.” From somewhere above him, Sherlock grunts softly, and John pulls back to make sure he’s alright. To his relief, Sherlock’s right hand has disappeared in front of him and is moving rapidly as he jerks himself off.

John raises his eyebrows. Sherlock’s refractory period was so damn short it was actually infuriating at times, but at this point, John can’t bring himself to fault him; he simply does his best to tamp down the jealousy rising in his chest as he leans in and resumes his ministrations on Sherlock’s hole.

“Ngh! Ngh!” John can hear the sound of water slapping against the tiles as Sherlock increases the pace of his hand, and he pries Sherlock’s cheeks even further apart, plunging his tongue in as deeply as he can, guiding him towards ecstasy.

“Ha! Ha! Ah! Ah!” Sherlock’s hole dilates and contracts around John’s tongue, and John moans into him. 

“Ah! John! Ah! _Ahhhhhhhhh…”_ Sherlock’s body goes taut as he comes, and John licks greedily at his hole until the waves of pleasure have subsided. Finally, he slumps bonelessly forward into the wall. “Oh my GOD, John.”

John pulls back and rinses off his face, then rises to his feet and pulls Sherlock towards him, turning him around so he can pepper his flushed face with kisses. “Good, love?”

“Jesus Christ, John. That was… something.”

John grins up at him. “Good.”

Sherlock leans forward to rest his forehead against John’s, and for a moment, they just breathe.

Finally, John pulls away and turns off the taps, then reaches for the rack and hands Sherlock his towel before grabbing his own. They dry themselves in a comfortable silence, then pad back to the bedroom to wrap themselves in their dressing gowns.

The rest of the evening is perfect. Angelo sends over food, and they eat it standing up in the kitchen (John knows now from experience that Sherlock will be too sore to sit comfortably for a while, but he doesn’t comment on it, he simply joins him leaning against the counter as they shovel pasta into their ravenous stomachs). Afterwards they relax on the sofa, Sherlock lying with his head in John’s lap while John plays with is hair and reads the paper and Sherlock… does whatever it is he’s doing when he’s staring off into space and gets that funny, glazed-over look in his eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” John can’t help but ask; Sherlock looks impossibly far away.

Sherlock blinks up at him. “The Biotech ABT-MFS-22C.”

“...Sorry?”

“It’s a deep freezer. Laboratory-grade. I was running the calculations to see if the circuit breaker could support one in 221C.”

John grins fondly down at him and ruffles his hair. “And what’s the prognosis?”

“It’s possible. Though we may also need to buy Mrs. Hudson a new vacuum since her old one shorts out the circuit breaker every week anyway, and I imagine the freezer would do little to improve the situation.”

John chuckles and Sherlock smiles up at him before steepling his fingers beneath his chin and closing his eyes, returning to that far-off place he goes to do his brainwork.

There’s so much John wants to say, so much he wants to tell him. He wants to tell Sherlock how proud he is of him, for adapting to change and thinking about their future. He wants to tell Sherlock how excited he is about the potential for them to have a proper workspace, turning their current flat into a domestic sanctuary free from the grim realities that too often haunt their doorstep. He wants to tell Sherlock how much it means to him that he’s willing to give up part of the place that has meant so much to him to make room for their growing daughter.

But as John gazes down at Sherlock’s face, beatific in its serenity, he has a feeling he already knows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and please do leave comments! I absolutely adore hearing from you.
> 
> ALSO - I am still taking requests and suggestions! And please know, if you’ve made a request previously that’s not yet been fulfilled, that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about it; I generally have multiple pieces in the works at once, so be patient - there’s a good chance your request will pop up in a future installment!


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